


Sound of solitude

by andrea_deer



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Angst, Asexuality, M/M, Other, challenge: bigbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrea_deer/pseuds/andrea_deer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. John went through all the stages of dealing with one’s death after he lost Sherlock. He run through those steps again, when he got his friend back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**Sound of solitude (Sherlock BBC)**_  
 **Title:** Sound of solitude  
 **Author:** andrea_deer  
 **Characters/Pairing(s):** Sherlock/John  
 **Rating:** R (for drugs, swearing and mentions of sex scenes)  
 **Warnings:** ANGST, asexual!Sherlock, suicide thoughts, injuries, presumed death of one of the characters. (But there is a happy ending.)  
 **Spoilers/Timeline:** All episodes, quite heavily.  
 **Summary:** Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. John went through all the stages of dealing with one’s death after he lost Sherlock. He run through those steps again, when he got his friend back.  
 **Word Count:** 13.150  
 **Beta:** [](http://aranellaurelote.livejournal.com/profile)[**aranellaurelote**](http://aranellaurelote.livejournal.com/)  
 **Art/Fanmixes:** [Fanmix](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/8578.html) made by [](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/profile)[**dear_monday**](http://dear-monday.livejournal.com/) and [Fanmix](http://community.livejournal.com/zellersee/19214.html) made by [](http://crediniaeth.livejournal.com/profile)[**crediniaeth**](http://crediniaeth.livejournal.com/)  
 **Disclaimer:** Nothing belongs to me. And I sort of enjoy this lack of responsibility.

 **A/N:** Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbigbang/profile)[**sherlockbigbang**](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbigbang/) and inspired by [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbigbang/863.html?thread=2399#t2399). I sort of wildly mixed the original idea and had my wicked way with it and I can only hope the original prompter will enjoy this fic. I honestly rarely attempt writing angst. I think it shows.

  


* * *

  


Denial.

  


* * *

  
“How is the blog going? Do you have any problems with what you’ve written?”  
“Problems? No, no problems.” Small quirk of mouth, bitter smile. “I haven’t written a word.”  
“John… John, you need to go back to writing.”  
“There is nothing… nothing on this Earth worth writing about.”  
“Then write about what there was. Write up your last case, John. It would be a shame to have this amount of great work left unknown. I know it must be hard to write about…”  
“No.” Sharp. Definitive. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s… fine. I will write it up, when I know how it ends.”  
“John, it has already ended”  
“You can’t know that.”

* * *

When John woke up for the first time after the explosion the pain clawed at his body, dragging him under to surrender to the blissful darkness. There was also a soft touch on his face. Cold, wet fingers sliding over the skin of his chin. The breath on John’s face as Sherlock spoke, but John could only hear the ringing. He fell into unconsciousness before he managed to pry his eyes open and ask Sherlock to repeat himself.

* * *

The second time John woke up he was so doped on painkillers he felt nothing, even though he knew he should be in agony. There was no Sherlock and for some reason that was much more disconcerting than the pain, so John fell into the darkness once again, thinking it really didn’t make much difference if he was awake now that Sherlock obviously was elsewhere. He might as well sleep for another few hours or days, and awake when the detective was safely seated by his side.

He woke up for the third time four days later and saw only Lestrade. The DI’s head snapped up, eyes instantly focused when he noticed John was awake. He looked tired and sad. Worried.

John tried to shape his dry lips in some sort of reassuring smile, before his mind caught up with far more important things.

“Sherlock?” he croaked.

Lestrade winced.

* * *

No one wanted to even hear about John not having a therapist. Not after he almost died and was trapped under a collapsed building. Not after it became obvious his injuries would have him crippled for months with little chance for full recovery. And certainly not after he had tried to persuade everyone who thought otherwise that Sherlock was alive.

The first time John heard that Sherlock was dead, he laughed. His dry throat rebelled against such rough treatment and he thought he would suffocate himself in a coughing fit. His cheeks red, tears streaming down, chuckles breaking through between the coughs.  
After a while he stopped correcting people. He knew he had no proof and in his state no one would believe him, so it was pointless. Not to mention painfully stupid, if Sherlock wanted to be presumed dead then he obviously had his reasons. It might’ve hurt a bit to be left behind, but John saw it for what it was: the only logical, tactical move at the moment. John was severely hurt, he would only slow Sherlock down and they couldn’t afford that. Not in this kind of race, where human lives were at stake. So John was left behind and Sherlock was presumed dead, because who would run from the ones resting in peace? The best way to catch your prey is to make it stop running. It seemed so obvious that John for the first time in his life wanted to tell people that life must be really boring with their small brains. Instead he just went with it, perhaps with a smile painted with pity and the edge of smugness.  
It took Mycroft Holmes to shake his sureness.

He arrived almost a week after John had woken up, which so far was one of John’s reasons to believe Sherlock was just fine. Certainly if he was indeed deceased his brother would be more affected. Asking questions and deducing clues to bring a bloody and painful end to the people responsible at best.

“Good afternoon, John,” he said instead, walking into John’s room, where he still laid pinned to the bed with tubes and needles. “I see you are slowly recovering, that is good news, isn’t it?”

He seemed almost overly calm and that thought both surprised and worried John. He wasn’t sure how exactly the elder Holmes managed to look even more like a cold hearted bastard if he seemed half-human at best times. And, what’s more important, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know why he did.  
Mycroft sat on the small, metal chair by John’s bed, where all his guests reclined. It was almost fascinating how Mycroft made it look as if he just sat on the huge wooden expensive chair in some antique office or library, while just a day before Harry made it look more like a bar stool. Just before she wrapped like a pretzel and actually napped on the uncomfortable furniture, unwilling to leave her brother, while under a sudden spell of protectiveness. Mycroft’s eyes moved over John’s bruised body with the same cataloguing look Harry wore, even though both of them knew all his injuries, from talking to a doctor and hacking his hospital records. Siblings, thought John, vaguely amused.

“I was informed that contrary to everyone else, even those who have far wider access to the evidence, you claim that my brother is still alive.”

John blinked surprised and then wasn’t able to stop a small smile. He sure wouldn’t be able to call Mycroft’s brain ‘little’.

“Yes. Yes, I believe so.”

“On what grounds if I may ask? You survived by a miracle, John. There were pieces of many different bodies, no one’s sure how many they dug up. They don’t know how many there are that will never be recovered.”

John nodded, noticing absentmindedly how Mycroft’s calm, detached tone was a relief after talking to people filled with pity, sadness and grief. It was almost as if a smooth, cold peace wrapped itself around John as well. He never thought he’d miss those sociopathic tendencies so much.

“I’m sure he’s alive. It makes no sense otherwise. We both know he’d have much better chance to catch Moriarty if he was presumed dead–”

“Ah,” interrupted Mycroft, following some unseen lines on the floor with the tip of his umbrella. “You assume then that Mr Moriarty is alive as well?”

John blinked, now completely thrown off. So far nobody bothered to fight him on that point.

“Well… Yes. Yes, of course.”

The older man just raised his eyebrow questioningly.

“You seem quite certain of that… Would you mind sharing your source of such sureness?”

John shook his head. Proof, proof, proof. He _knew_ that both Sherlock and Moriarty were alive. Why couldn’t that just be enough? He _knew_. If Moriarty was dead, why would Sherlock have to hide?

“It…” He stopped himself and sighed in frustration, trying to find the right words. “It wouldn’t make sense otherwise. Moriarty wouldn’t just be killed like that and… and if he was then Sherlock wouldn’t have to hide.”

“You seem to completely ignore the notion that my brother may not be hiding.”

“He’s not dead,” snapped John quickly, tired of having this conversation over and over again. Sherlock was alive, for God’s sake. Even his own brother couldn’t have a little faith in him?

“I certainly hope you are right, John,” said Mycroft still calm and collected. “And yet my best people are trying to find a trace of him and failing… He never managed to hide from me, John. Not for that long, how can you explain it?”

John gritted his teeth hard.

“He’s better than you,” he spat out in the end and a small chuckle was the last sound he heard from Mycroft that afternoon.

If anything, this attitude only strengthened John’s belief that not only Sherlock was alive and well, but also that Mycroft knew all about it. Nobody could be that unmoved about the death of someone they worried about constantly.

The eldest Holmes sat for few more seconds, obviously lost in thought, before standing calmly and nodding at John in goodbye. Quiet in his leaving, just as Harry has been.

Late at night, John laid still, immobilized with casts and all the machinery around him, staring at the ceiling in sleepless stupor. Hours after Mycroft’s departure he suddenly realized the older man never called Sherlock by his name, which seemed odd for him. He also never used the word ‘dead’ anywhere near his brother’s name or title. John tried hoping it was code. But he knew it was fear.

Mycroft dissapeared from John's life just as Sherlock did, the only sign of him being a short note John later found in the post, informing him that his brother’s half of the rent would be taken care of. Harry, at least, had the decency to ring.

* * *

Every doctor assured John with a smile that his recovery was going very well. It seemed like the only good news they could offer him and so they chose to shove it at him over and over again. As if he wasn’t a doctor and couldn’t tell for himself he was indeed getting better.

He had a cast over half of his upper body, immobilizing his left side and granting the quicker healing to his twice broken and collar bone. His ribs were still aching in pain with every deeper breath or movement of the hand, but they were quite obviously healing as well. Able now to deal with John sitting up on his own.

They said that good mood and healthy spirit was the key to the quick recovery. John’s new therapist, Agatha, declared John shocked and on the edge of depression, but John was determined and that apparently was a picklock to the quick recovery. When he was able to stumble to the bathroom on his own, they finally let him go home.

He had to have a nurse visit him three times a week, physical therapist twice and Mrs. Hudson hovering over him constantly, but it was worth it just to be back at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

He feared opening his laptop, it would make him deal with yet another bunch of things connected to Sherlock’s last case. He didn’t want to write about it. Not on his blog and not in the emails he was expected to send. He managed to spend few quiet days at Baker Street just getting used to living there, injured and clumsy. Alone. He caved after hours of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. Breathing slowly to ease the pain, not moving further to not aggravate his wounds even more. Baker Street was not a place of comfort it sometimes seemed to him, Internet seemed the easiest way to reach out.

His blog was empty, his inbox was full.

  
_Is it true?  
Are you sure?  
My condolences.  
How are you holding up?  
Do you need anything?  
Gcge zxy nhau whpdkj, Cbvfs-cxc. Fh lcm gjbw ahhf eutcit, irh? BG_   


John’s breath got caught in his throat. He stared at the e-mail, drinking in every detail before scribbling the message down.

  
_From: **masterofscience@gmail.com**  
To: **jhwatson@gmail.com**_   


_  
Topic: (nosubject)   
_

_  
Gcge zxy nhau whpdkj, Cbvfs-cxc.  
Fh lcm gjbw ahhf eutcit, irh?  
BG   
_

“John, you need to eat. Your body needs strength to heal! I swear you boys are so silly sometimes!”

Mrs. Hudson winced at her own slip, but John managed to give her a calm nod before reaching for the plate she put next to him as soon as he sat by the desk. He felt her warm eyes at him. His hand clumsy and trembling even more so, while he was watched. He swallowed with difficulty around the lump of embarrassment in his throat.

“I will make you some hot tea to go with that,” said Mrs. Hudson lightly and John breathed out a quiet sigh of relief.

He put the fork down now that his landlady was out of sight.

“Eat up!” He jumped as her voice came from downstairs, but obediently with a small smile started back on his food.

He managed to stomach half of the plate before Mrs. Hudson came back and put the cup of hot tea on the desk next to him, pushing away the books he let cluster there. He took a hold on the Code Textbook she moved and opened it at the chapter about alphabetic codes. He heard a sigh behind him few minutes later, before Mrs. Hudson took the unfinished plate away and left him alone.  
He stopped reading only when the pain in his arm became unbearable and reminded him to take his medication and lay down. He had found nothing yet, but the excitement of the search was still winning with frustration. It managed for a week of fruitless research.

* * *

“John?” asked a tired voice over the phone.

“Lestrade, yes, hi. I know I said I would ring you–” said John hurriedly.

“Yeah, we were getting worried, but it may not be the best time, John, we’re just finishing the case–”

“Sorry, it’s just… It’s sort of really important,” he took a breath, rushing in, embarrassed that he needed to ask for help at all. “I got this email… I think it might be from Sherlock, I think it may be in code and I just can’t…”

“John,” said Lestrade and John let out a tired sigh, hearing the pitying tone of voice he learned so much about lately. “Sherlock is dead.”

“For God’s sake Lestrade, someone had to send this email! It somehow deleted itself, but I wrote the message down and–”

“John, don’t. I know it’s hard for you, but he is gone. You need to stop looking for a proof that he is not, it will only hurt you more, when–”

John hung up. He had heard it all from his therapist already.

* * *

There were Sherlock’s things in the apartment John didn’t mind moving around or tossing out. By the time he came back from the hospital someone already got rid off the head in the fridge. He tossed out the poisons he knew about eventually and sanitized the kitchen. He removed all signs of experiments and once even ventured into Sherlock’s bedroom to make sure nothing toxic was going to grow there. He had no problem with dealing with Sherlock’s things, he always did that.  
He never got to moving the violin. It stayed in its case by Sherlock’s armchair and John refused to even come near. He never sat in Sherlock’s place, scared he would step on to the case and break the precious instrument. He walked around it and never looked at it. One day it simply disappeared and when he stopped in the middle of the room, staring at the space where the case used to be he felt as if he couldn’t breathe for a moment.

“Mrs. Hudson? You wouldn’t happen to know what happened to…” he stared at the empty space as his landlady popped her head out of the kitchen to see what he was on about it.

“I put it on the shelf, dear,” she said softly and rushed off before he managed to comment or stop feeling embarrassed like a child who already knows the Santa doesn’t exist, but gets this burning feeling of doubt upon seeing dark footprints by the fireplace.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he croaked eventually and sat down heavily in the chair formerly belonging to his flatmate.

* * *

The notes seemed to migrate further and further away from John’s laptop. They took over the desk and then started taking over the entire flat. Small, yellow post-it notes framing the mirror like they used to when Sherlock was working on a case. Then they spread over the walls and John could only hope he’d soon be mobile enough to put some on the ceiling above his bed. He couldn’t sleep anyway, he might’ve as well put all those staring in space to some use.  
It took him thirty-seven days and countless amounts of bad ideas, wrong tries and fits of frustration to finally deduce the riddle he saw as his last sign of Sherlock. The topic of the email was the key, he should have far earlier considered the lack of space between the words. Once he decided to use them together as a key word it was only a case of checking the codes that actually needed the code word. Trying them out and seeing if the message made any sense at all. Just over five weeks and he finally stumbled upon the Vigenere Cipher.

  
_“Took you long enough, Jonny-boy. Do you miss your master, pet? JM.”_   


* * *

  


Anger.

  


* * *

The night after deciphering the message was so much longer and darker than all the others. Three was called to be the worst hour, more terrifying, more lonely than any other time. But this time hours since midnight to two didn’t seem much different at all. Four didn’t seem to be bringing any optimistic bounds of happiness either.

* * *

He felt cold seeping into his bones and wounds, making his muscles shiver and aggravate the injuries. Pain clouding his mind like a sticky web covered in poison. Someone moved delicate fingers over John’s cheeks as if trying to save this one place from torture. Cold, wet finger bringing him refreshing numbness.  
There was a hot breath washing over John’s face as the man above him spoke, but John could only hear the ringing in his ears. He fought to open his eyes, knowing he would be able to understand if he would only be able to see. He pried his eyelids and gasped, his heart hammering in his throat.

“Hello, pet.”

John woke up with a shout.

* * *

Sometime during the night the medication and John’s healing body won with his fear and anxiety for a while and he fell into a short, tiring nightmare. He woke up even more exhausted and frustrated, biting into his pillow to muffle his undignified cries. It was late autumn, it would be long before it would become bright again.  
John stared at his electric alarm clock on the bedside table and urged it on. Watching every minute pass and thinking of Moriarty’s new little ploy. Why would he send this message? To play with him? Of course, Moriarty loved games. He was like a toddler with whom nobody wanted to play anymore. But why would he decide to play with John?

Slow, deep breaths were the key to calming down. To swallow the pain in his throat and stop the tears streaming down his face since he woke up in panic. Breathing, breathing was important. Boring, perhaps, but important non the less.

Moriarty played with John, because he was the only one left. John wheezed in a deep, wet breath.

“You bloody bastard,” he cursed sounding harsh and feeling silly for talking to himself, but not finding any better companion. “You utter bastard. You’ve left me alone with a bloody madman! You got your stupid arse killed and left me as his last toy!”

He breathed for a moment. Calming himself. The message was sent weeks ago, it made no sense to think Moriarty would know John just solved it. There was no reason for the person walking down the street or the shadow in the corner or the quiet sound in the living room to be Moriarty. There was no reason to believe John was currently sleeping on a bomb.

“You utter, utter bastard.”

* * *

The sweat was sliding down into his eyes; his hair and clothes wet, his muscles trembling with overuse, but he’d done good. His rehabilitation as always tiring and so frustrating. His legs weakened, the left one acting off again, hurting as if the parts of it were missing, when it fact it was probably the healthiest part of his body. He always felt so embarrassed while following Jensen’s instructions to exercise it. It’s not like there was any injury the exercises could help with. It was just some more of pointless pain.

Sometimes John thought it was all pointless pain, really. He spent hours sweating and cursing and growling in pain, so he could lie later too exhausted to move, his limbs still aching. Sometimes the ability to move his arm at full capacity didn’t seem worth it. After few weeks of coming over to order his rehabilitation Jensen seemed to start recognizing those moods and instead of plastering a kind smile he usually did, he just set his full mouth in a determined line and refused to let John make him loose his patience.

“Alright, John?” asked Jensen kindly, his hand softly falling to John’s lower back. Soft touch urging the ex-army doctor towards the sofa. John clenched his teeth. He could walk by himself for God’s sake.

He made an angry step away, his weight resting for a tiny fraction of a second on his right leg, before the pain shot up his body and he shouted in pain, falling forward, ready to once again fall on to the floor. Jensen’s arm caught him in a strong grip, holding him up, pressed against his chest. John’s curled in pain body slowly unwind against his therapist’s form and breathing shallowly he stood shakily on his own legs.

“Careful,” said Jensen quietly. His voice strained from the exertion.

John breathed angrily through his nose. He made a shaken step forward, while Jensen tried to keep the grip on his arms.

“Watch your leg!” ordered physical therapist.

“DAMN, MY LEG!”

He stumbled, falling onto the sofa as his legs gave up in another source of overpowering pain. His eyes closing tight, curses running through his mind as he tried to breathe in some numbness into his nerves. He could hear Jensen sigh behind him, before he tried to lay John in a more comfortable position. His body still curled in painful clench of muscles.  
Warm hands touched his thigh, massaging carefully.

“Don’t.”

“The pain may be psychosomatic, but your muscles do clench in pain, John! Making them relax may ease the feeling-“

“No!”

“John-“

“It’s fake! Working on those muscles won’t help! Massaging tense muscles won’t help! Unless you have an idea how to fix my bloody brain, I suggest you back off!”

Jensen moved back, seated on his heels, arms raised in surrender. John tried calming his breathing, looking away embarrassed. Awkward silence falling between them.

“I’m… Well…”

“It’s okay, John.”

“It’s just so…” he fall silent unable to find the word good enough to describe his situation.

Playing cat and mouse with a criminal mastermind. Grieving a flatmate he knew for barely few months. Exercising a perfectly healthy leg for the pain that had source in his messed up brain.

Jensen handed him a bottle with painkillers.

“It’s just so… stupid.”

* * *

From: masterofscience@gmail.com  
To: jhwatson@gmail.com

Topic: I found a wandering pet, I thought I will give it a home.

But the banker said: Evening, fourteen eighteen.  
And I kindly replied: Morning! Fourteen, fourteen, twenty-three!  
And the little pet was free! It run into the night barking madly for its master: fourteen! Fourteen! Six and five!  
But the master wasn’t alive.

~ J.M.

* * *

He wrote the e-mail down before it disappeared again. Noted out all the numbers mentioned and started working on codes. Sherlock always said he only keeps most important things in his brain, everything else he can find online or on his bookcases. It was his outside disk with endless storing space. It not only cleared Sherlock’s head, it also made it so much easier for anyone else to dig into it.  
It took John eleven days before he went through all Sherlock’s books on numerous and time codes. And yet another three before his tired brain finally made obvious connections.

“John, you look so thin!” clucked Mrs. Hudson disapprovingly and John’s head shot up from above the book he was blindly staring at, seated in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson put a plate of food, shuffling some of his papers away. She frowned, but didn’t comment. He covered all the space around him with papers and books, notes and copies, she should complain, he knew she wanted to. But papers weren’t smelly body parts or toxic poisons. There was none of those in the house anymore as far as either of them could tell. Mrs. Hudson was relieved, John didn’t let himself think about it. Ever.

“Are you still working on those time codes?”

“Yes,” answered John curtly, more annoyed with Mrs. Hudson knowing what he’s doing than with her asking about it in the first place.

“Does it have anything to do with your old case?”

“What? No!” He snapped.

His therapist already accused him of trying those riddles to re-live the thrill he felt on cases with Sherlock. He thought she was insane, but vaguely recognized that admitting to seeing messages from supposedly-dead evil mastermind wouldn’t come out sounding much saner.

“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear,” she rushed quickly and he sighed guiltily. It seemed to make her surer. He wished for the times she wasn’t so used to his outbursts. So did she, probably. “It’s just reminded me of that case you had… the one you titled The Blind Banker? It was a great read to! I mean, when I read the story of those poor girl? It was-“

He stopped listening to her chatting. His eyes closed tight, the failure bitter in his mouth. He was such an idiot. Such a bloody idiot.

Blind Banker… That’s how John titled the case about numerous codes referencing to words in books.  
Evening and morning editions.  
Fourteen is the page with the announcements...

He stumbled to the living room and growing pile of newspapers by the door, digging for the issues from the days right after the e-mail. Mrs. Hudson called after him, reminding him about food and sighing when he didn’t even hear her.

* * *

(12:)Call (13:)this (14:)number (15:)after (16:)six (17:)on (18:)Monday…

(10:)looking (11:)for (12:)a (13:)nice (14:)girl…  
(18:)dealing (19:)with (20:)insects (21:)with (22:)effective (23:)poison…

(1:)Pick (2:)them (3:)from (4:)the (5:)Waterloo (6:)Station…  
(8:)Don’t (9:)waste (10:)your (11:)time! (12:)We (13:)are (14:)waiting…

  
_Monday. Girl, poison. Waiting Station Waterloo._   


* * *

With shaking hands John tore at the newspapers, looking for the one involving news from the previous Monday. He starred at the smiling face of nineteen-year-old girl, captioned Sheridan, age 17. He felt numb as if someone suddenly frozen his insides. He read on in a cold calmness.  
Sheridan wasn’t special. She was a good student, first-born child with two younger siblings. Twins: Lily and Arthur. She seemed as happy as any teenager could be. She broke up with her boyfriend recently, which seemed to be the only believable reason for her apparent suicide. Jason P., the boyfriend, was shocked at the reveal of the tragedy. He swore they parted in friendly relations and he’d never expect something like that from Sheri. He swears it must’ve been a mistake! Police and the family of the girl saw no other explanation for this situation. The funeral was supposed to be held on Thursday. Campaign at Sheri’s school to fight with suicide rates among teenagers is hoped to help others in similar situations.

John could barely read the last lines of the article. The letters blurring as the newspaper shook, clenched in his left hand. He didn’t miss the war. He missed comrades he could count on.

He thought of ringing Lestrade, but bitterly remembered their last conversation. Detective Inspector didn’t even believe he got any kind of messages, how was he supposed to help him figure them out? John’s mouth bend in a non-amused smile. As if the Yard could help him at all. As if they could even dream about finding Moriarty.  
John was not a genius by any standards, but he did have an advantage: Moriarty _wanted_ to play with him. He was a second best toy, true, but it was not as if he could let go and throw the towel now. Moriarty promised Sherlock they wouldn’t stop playing until he’ll burn Sherlock’s heart out. It seemed that Sherlock took the easy way out, while John was forced to take his place in the game. It was fine by John, he had more of a heart to burn anyway. Perhaps enough to keep Moriarty’s attention long enough to be caught.

* * *

  


Bargaining

  


* * *

The next riddle took John only a week to work out. And in the end he only did it for the training, because three days after he received his clue, a middle-aged man was blown up in a small bookstore in Chelsea. But John knew the new messages would come, new victims would be there to save and John had to be up to it.  
This time it was Lestrade who rang. He asked about John’s health. Made small talk. Tried to erase the memory of how their last conversation ended. John was edgy, he hadn’t taken any painkillers since last evening and his body ached, nerves burning as he moved in his chair. Burned back, broken bones, healthy leg. Hurt, hurt, hurt.  
But his mind was clearer than it had been in months.

“Inspector what are you exactly calling for?” John finally interrupted.

“What?” Lestrade sounded surprised, the polite, smiling tone gone with the small sound of confusion. “I called you to check you're holding up, John. If that’s not a good time-“

“The time is fine,” snapped John, running his hand over his tired face. “But it’s been six days since the bombing so clearly in Moriarty’s style even you had to pick up on it. You’re at work and you’ve run out of other leads, so you decided to call me. You waited as long as you could because partly you don’t want to upset me, partly you think I’m raving mad. Judging by the fact that it’s Friday, your usual day to report to your boss, I believe she told you to suck it up and ring me. So could you please don’t waste more of your lunch hour than it’s needed and just ask what you want to?”

There was silence on the other end and John breathed slowly. Calm, regular breaths. The pain is psychosomatic, but muscles do react to it. Relax them. Jensen’s calm voice coming back to him. Breath. Easier said than done, smart-ass.

“That was… good deduction, you almost sounded-“

“Thank you,” interrupted John. There were things he couldn’t hear, even if he knew them. Especially since he did. “Ask.”

Lestrade sighed defeated.

“Do you know anything about this bombing, John?”

“Yes,” answered John honestly and the gasp from the other end told him Detective Inspector was past playing nice and calm.

“You did?” he asked harshly, his voice raising. “And it haven’t occurred to you to call us? What are you playing at John, you’re not Holmes for God’s sake!”

John closed his eyes, briefly. Not ready, you bastard.

“If I remember correctly the first time I found something wrong, I tried ringing you-“

“And you said you think it’s Sherlock!”

“And I was wrong!” he yelled over the detective, before lowering his tone of voice to the frozen fury he felt. “Listen, he… He tried to play with me, now that he lost his main interest. That’s it. I failed, obviously, the game must be much less amusing then he assumed.”

Lestrade was silence for few beats.

“Do you think he will try it again?”

Of course.

“Doubtful. As I said, I’m not exactly a worthy opponent.”

“Alright… Alright,” said Lestrade trying to calm them both down. “Next time he contacts you, you ring me, you hear? You can’t withhold information, you need to-“

John let out a bitter laugh, absolutely drained with any sort of amusement.

“And then what? _You_ will be capable of winning with him? Even if yes, then it won’t matter. You will mobilize the whole yard to figure out his riddle and it won’t do any good, because he will know _I_ hadn’t done it!”

“John-”

“You know I’m right, Lestrade. We will never catch him.”

He hung up and the next time Lestrade rang to ask him about yet another bombing it was three months later and John already failed to save four more people. Lestrade hadn’t bothered with asking how John was and John could only be grateful. He was too tired to lie.

* * *

The painkillers were a blessing in disguise. Or a curse in disguise. They helped him deal with the suffering, but they clouded his mind so badly. He feared every pill was slowing his thinking process down just a tiny bit. It hurt, it hurt so badly he could barely move sometimes just before he finally gave up and reached for the blessed pills. And yet there was a voice in his head saying a little pain never killed anyone and his clouded brain just might.

He started scratching times between taking pills. Reaching his limits. Playing on the edge of them.

One day he almost run out of his room, getting downstairs to reach his notes, some new idea in his freshly waken up head. His pills were left upstairs as he worked himself into stubborn in the living room. When he finally capitulated he could barely sit without moaning in pain. When he stood up after hours of reading, curled up in his chair, the muscles strained and gave out making him fall like freshly cut grass. He would see disappointed faces of Mrs. Hudson or Jensen in his mind, but all went white as the pain shot out.  
He lay on the floor, suffering in pain, moaning, growling, weeping in torture, for six hours until Agatha came for one of their therapeutic sessions and found him. She called the ambulance and he was never so glad for the invention of the morphine as he was this day. He wasted hours while suffering pointlessly on the floor of his own living room, it was his argument to never again be found without a bottle of painkillers within his grasp.

Jensen reminded him he’s supposed to be laying off of them slowly as the injuries heal. Agatha called them his new kind of crutch. John didn’t care for checking either one of their theories. He was taking painkillers to not be in pain, he wasn’t as long as he took them, so all was working according to the plan, wasn’t it? If they only always worked for his leg as well, he would be just fine.

* * *

After some time every murder in the newspaper seemed like Moriarty’s game and John’s failure. Riddle after riddle was done just a little bit too late. Life after life was wasted. Death after death was weighing down John’s consciousness, dragging it to hell on earth.

He dreamed now so often of Moriarty. Almost all dreams morphed in dreams about games, destruction, death and failure. Moriarty’s laugh, Sherlock’s dead body laying lifeless next to John as Moriarty bowed down to touch John’s warm cheek.

Sometimes, rarely, John’s mind decided to give up and tried to drag John into the land of fantasy and happiness. World full of slightly chilled, long fingers that always belonged only to Sherlock. World of a warm body pressed against John’s. Sliding, pressing, touching. Smelling like Sherlock, tasting like the John in the dream knew Sherlock had to taste, pushing into John as if they’ve never done anything else. It was the world in which John was surrounded and overwhelmed, with all of his senses picking up only one thing: Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

He woke up from those dreams with a start. His hand finishing bringing him over the edge before he managed to think about it. He cried after those dreams even more often than he did after dreaming of Sherlock’s dead eyes. At least dead Sherlock was real.

* * *

“It is always hard, when we loose our other half, my dear,” said Mrs. Hudson once and John was then still full of life and memories enough that he felt like pointing out that’s not the case.

He and Sherlock weren’t together like that. John loved Sherlock as his best friend and most amazing human on Earth. That was all. They never were together like _that_. He hadn’t slept with Sherlock, despite what people kept telling him. He might’ve been in love with him, but what was the point of digging into this now?

Mrs. Hudson only smiled, slightly pitifully at him.

“You boys can be so silly,” she said shaking her head. “Of course you didn’t sleep with Sherlock. He wasn’t wired like that.”

John gulped, looking away with his burning eyes.

“It was obvious you loved each other though.”

Too bad we never noticed it ourselves, thought John bitterly. He thought of Sherlock’s smile and most annoying violin playing ever produced at three am. Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock did that just to make John come down to complain. He always smiled then too.  
John blinked rapidly, clearing his throat and looking away. It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it? Just one more riddle for his list of the ones he failed at.

* * *

  


Depression

  


* * *

“John, your blog was your way of calming down after the rush of adventure. Putting it in narrative stream of events following each other in logical order was your way of taming it. You need to deal, you need to tame those memories.”

“I can’t… There’s no time now to think about it.”

“John, don’t you see how this obsession is swallowing you? Burning you down? You need to let it go, you need to accept you can’t win.”

“I have to win.”

* * *

Every time John read or heard that police suspected suicide, the police was baffled, the police had no comment at the moment, he thought he’d just killed someone. He had no way of knowing how many of those deaths somehow involved Moriarty. He had no base to think even if he managed to play with Moriarty on Sherlock’s level, he’d let him save all those people. It was hard to say how much better would it be if he hadn’t failed, when he kept on failing every time. Letting the madman kill just as he let him kill Sherlock.

He dreamed of dead bodies. He dreamed of smiling faces from the photos of victims. And he never could help them. Not even warn them. The dreams had no clues for him. The only times they spoke to him they just told him to find Sherlock, because Sherlock will be able to help them. John was constantly on edge, running for Sherlock, for clues, running before the deadline of the next riddle.

He woke up and nothing much changed, except there was no Sherlock to run to. And new deadlines kept on coming, bringing up the count of the bodies. Lost souls that John had failed so spectacularly.

The feeling of running, being rushed constantly forward didn’t disappear even when the feeling of pointlessness overpowered him and he hadn’t made his way out of the bed. Once it took him three days to finally get dressed and crawl out. Jensen didn’t seem amused, but started the session slowly anyway. Most basic exercise John was so boringly familiar with. He was sweating like a pig after half an hour, legs shaking underneath him, muscles starting to spasm in a far away pain kept at bait with painkillers John overdosed in the morning. He gasped for air as Jensen hovered next to him, ready to catch his failing body if the need arise.

“Breathe, John. Breathe!”

 _Breathing_ , the bored, distasteful voice sounded so clearly in John’s head as it had almost ten months ago. _Breathing’s boring!_

And John’s legs gave out.

* * *

Once, while looking for the files John knew Sherlock kept on the types of blades and wounds they may cause, John found drugs. The thick, wooden panel separating the bookshelf in half was on the level of a third bookshelf carved at the end. With a small, square wooden box put in its place. Tucked safely between Oxford dictionary and last volume of encyclopedia in a row. John absently noted it was the E-G one, not the W-Z as could be assumed. It didn’t particularly surprise him.  
He looked into the wooden box with curiosity, not overly surprised he found yet another hidden place. It made him vaguely think with some nostalgia and smile that if Sherlock was supposed to tell him all his secret hiding places they would have to know each other for far, far longer. Sherlock loved hiding places and John knew it was only partly due to the drugs busts and people simply being nosy. He had visions of small Sherlock with his curly, black hair, hiding things all around. Making them secrets. Because certainly toys were only fun when they were secrets. He wondered if Mycroft ever hid things for him, making him search for the treasure. He wondered if Sherlock hid something back and if Mycroft ever found it. Perhaps he let his little brother win at the age when he could fool him like that, perhaps he was after all worse than the growing genius of Sherlock. Perhaps he was too lazy to move far enough. John smiled melancholically then before the thought that Sherlock won’t ever find any of his hidden treasures caught up with him. Blindsiding him with a sudden stab of pain he was still experiencing when it suddenly was driven home. Never again. Not coming home. Dead. Dead. Dead.  
He put the drugs back into their hiding place then. Now he kept on looking more and more in their direction. He had syringes. Sherlock provided him with cocaine. It was just a matter of administrating it… And falling down the rabbit hole. So far he only shook his head at himself, moving away. He wondered how long he would stay like that. He wondered if drugs would make it all easier, but he was still too much of a proper boy to try it. The option of taking them, the glancing at the place where they are hidden was calming enough. Like a reassurance that there is something he can still do. The reminder of the final option. It was like cleaning his gun and putting one bullet in it. For the dramatic effect. And to make sure everyone would know he hadn’t planed on shooting anyone else. All his enemies could kill him overly easy even with the clip full.

* * *

Once again he lay in the cold. He’d had this dream so many times now. If only he could remember that when he was actually dreaming it. If he only could stop his subconscious from making it worse every time.

He lay. And there was shooting pain again. And cold fingers on his cheek and warm breath on his face. He struggled to open his eyes…

“Wakie, wakie, sleepy pet,” whispered a mocking voice.

John’s eyes snapped open and he only saw the darkened bedroom, streetlight dragging long, thick shadows out of the furniture. He breathed slowly, counting down. Tricked his mind into calming down. It was just a dream. A broken memory you kept replaying wrongly. You’re alone. There’s only Mrs. Hudson downstairs. You’re safe. As safe as you can be. He breathed out slowly, slowly, the air leaking out of him as if he tried to make it last.

It run out of him in a shocked wheeze as he felt the soft touch on his cheek. He froze, his nerves tingling, waiting. He waited. Whole body strained. He hadn’t noticed when he fell back to sleep, but when he woke up with a start it was bright light and there was no one in the flat beside him. He told himself he was relieved. And cleaned his gun twice.

* * *

“You don’t understand, I can’t stop… If there is the smallest chance I may win…”

“Do you honestly believe there is, John?”

“What… What do you mean?”

“John, this man wants to break you. He won’t break you by giving you a chance to save someone. He will break you by making you believe you have a chance, but making sure you actually never do.”

“You can’t know that. You… You can’t be sure that’s how it is. You can’t be one hundred percent sure I’m not going to save someone!”

“You can’t be sure you ever will. And I am quite sure you will loose yourself trying, John.”

* * *

Somehow the touch on the hair was less scary than steps he started hearing downstairs. He checked it. Over and over again. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. And yet he laid in his bed, listening to Sherlock move around the living room. Pacing before the fireplace, as when he talked to the skull, a different thud as when he stepped over the table, not bothering to move around it like a normal person… Scratch of leather on the sofa. Something being put down on the table in the kitchen. Books being loudly closed. Papers shuffled.

Nothing was ever out of place. The noises stopped as soon as John moved, concentrated on them or run downstairs. They only continued when he let them fly by him. Not analyzing, rationalizing, deducing, checking… Just laying down with face pressed in his pillow, fists clenched tightly. After few nights he could almost swear he heard a violin.  
He got rid of the drugs the next day.

* * *

“The Police suspects suicide, but the family of the deceased is shocked by this statement, they’re sure the police must’ve missed something. Mrs. Flints comments on her brother’s mysterious death…”

John watched idly as a tired looking woman with a hoarse voice, told him and the other viewers how impossible it was for her brother to kill himself. He was happy, they were in good contact, she would know if there was something wrong. John hid his face in his hands with a tired, broken feeling of a failure. Another one?

“Will caring about them help save them?” asked the voice clear as a day. Coming from the very same chair, only now John was seated on the sofa and refused to look up. Knowing he won’t see anything.

“No,” he whispered. “But somebody has to.”

* * *

“I think you should stop opening the messages from him-“

“No.”

“John, please, listen to me. He toys with you. And eventually he will break you. You need to stop yourself from being his play toy. It’s not you not being good enough, John. Even if you were as good as him, he wouldn’t let you win. He would change the rules, switch games completely. He will never let you win.”

“But I need to try!”

* * *

Every new message from Moriarty brought another riddle John failed at.

Every newspaper brought another death that could be John’s fault.

Every session with Agatha ended with him refusing to give up on the game.

Every session with Jensen ended with a scolding and promise to exercise.

Every night was filled with dreams of Sherlock. And sounds of Sherlock once John woke up.

He stumbled down the stairs in the morning. His head fuzzy with unhealthy dreams and sleepless hours. His body stiff from the lack of exercise. He walked across the kitchen, grabbing his mug, mechanically putting on the kettle, seeing Sherlock sitting in the armchair with the corner of his eye. The mug fell to the floor with a crash of broken ceramic. John breathed shallowly as he stared at the empty armchair, his heart thumping in his chest.

He pushed all the thoughts of ending his sessions with Agatha away from his mind immediately.

* * *

“I… I need to do something,” his voice almost breaking. His hand shaking and he balled it in fist, putting his chin on it. “I… I’ve missed him so much it felt nice to have… something, but I can’t… I can’t…”

Agatha smiled at him as if he finally managed to grasp the point she had been shoving at him for the past few weeks. Or months. Her blue eyes shining with pride. Bright as always, when she looked at him. Full of hope and strength. She looked young and small, but so sure of herself and the power of her patients, she radiated it. She reminded John of Sarah. But with a stubborn Holmes’ streak and a stroke of their intelligence. She was not easily deflected and he could count on her.

“What… What do I need to do?”

“You need to take control back, John. You can’t play games no one can win. Don’t try. Don’t accept failure as it happens. Let them go completely. Moriarty can’t run your life, because he will destroy it. And John? Sherlock can’t either. You need to let go of him too.”

He had cried many times in her office. Not as many as in his bed. Or Sherlock’s. He always felt embarrassed as if he was coming here to pass some test and not dealing perfectly with everything was an incredible set back. This time he looked away, staring at the window his eyes stinging.

“How?”

“Stop waiting for him to finish your story. Tell us finally, what happened on Sherlock Holmes’ last case.”

He closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t look at her as he nodded, but she waited him out and with a deep breath he met her gaze, nodding swiftly with calm calculation.

“I will,” he croaked and coughed away the emotions choking him. “It will be a year in almost two weeks… Good time for a closure, hmm?” he smiled at her, aiming for the reassuring, calm smile he once possessed.

She let him pretend he managed and responded in kind.

* * *

  
_It is with the mission of saying my goodbye and showing my friend the respect I felt for him, that I type in the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend, Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. It took me a year to gather myself enough to attempt this challenge and I fear I still failed to put all the details I knew in the right order. Those of you reading my blog not for the first time realize I tend to try to put some narration order in the happenings that made my head spin while they took place and I hope this fact will make you look with kinder eyes upon this final story. It lies with me to tell for the first time what really took place between Jim Moriarty and the only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.  
It all started when Sherlock was bored…_   


* * *

  


Acceptance

  


* * *

He got comments from their friends and family. Harry rang him not an hour after he finally posted and, in a choked voice told him, she was coming to him to hug him. He laughed and deflected. He couldn’t stand company right now. The hug from Mrs. Hudson was almost too much on it’s own. He tried to respond to people’s messages. Trying to sound sane and balanced. The story was about Sherlock, he didn’t need to steal spotlight and make them worry about him.  
He got an email from Moriarty and he didn’t open it. He took all his pills and went to sleep. Pills for fake pains and for fake sounds. He almost felt as if he should take fake pills. He woke up in the morning sweaty and tired, but he hadn’t remembered any dreams.

* * *

Through the whole year as he put off the writing down of his final case with Sherlock, he feared not only writing it, but what would happen after. Now that he finally did post it, he realized this wasn’t exactly correct. He told his therapist he feared it wasn’t the end of the story and he doesn’t want to act as if it was. He told his sister he didn’t want to learn after posting it that he had omitted some details that later would prove to be important. He told the shadows he stared at while trying to fall asleep in his bedroom that he feared Moriarty will deduce from it more than he already knew and somehow use it against him.  
The truth was he feared nothing would happen.

People would read it, comment or not, ring him and say they’re sorry or not, and they would let it go. Put it behind them. Accept there once was a brilliant man called Sherlock Holmes and now he wasn’t. Happens to the best of us. And the best ones always die young. And the story would get stuck under the safety blanket of cliches and daily routines and no one would see it anymore. And John would finally and permanently be left alone. And Sherlock wouldn’t appear on his doorstep to mock his idiocy in believing that Sherlock could possibly be dead.

After two weeks there was still no Sherlock. Comments were posted much more rarely. Regular calls from Harry stopped being regular. And Mrs. Hudson stopped coming upstairs as often as she used to.

John went on with his fewer rehabilitation sessions and meetings with his therapist. He took his pills and ate his meals that he now made mostly by himself. He got another message from Moriarty, but still hadn’t opened it and it disappeared like all the previous ones, making John wonder: whom he even didn’t try to save. He watched the news with dread, but a cold knowledge he wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway. Agatha was right, Moriarty was playing with him and he could only save himself at this point. He toyed with the idea that he’d bore Moriarty to death and moved on with determination. Step after step. Living without Sherlock and not expecting him to come back. Pretending he wasn’t somewhere deep inside disappointed that his friend hadn’t proved him wrong once again. He felt shallow and broken, but as if he could cope once again, so he did. Living his life day after day in routine and peace for the next four and half month.

After a month his sessions with Jensen were cut to one every two weeks. After two months his therapist sessions were only monthly and with regular check ups through the blog or an email. It was almost three months since posting when messages from Moriarty stopped coming. And eight days later Sherlock came back home.

[[Continued Here](http://community.livejournal.com/thenorthwing/6649.html#cutid1)]  


  
.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

~~Denial~~

* * *

The bomb went off and there were screams of people in pain, people dying. Sherlock throwing himself in the pool, the burning parts of ceiling falling all around him. He was hurt when he finally crawled out. His ribs broken, one of his legs cut and blood slowly being pumped out of it. He crawled to where John laid, covered by the door from the changing rooms, with the broken sides of walls fallen on him. He touched his chin in fear. There was too much on him to see if he was breathing and there was blood everywhere. Streaming down John’s peaceful face.

“John! John!” his voice croaked, but he could see John’s eyebrows knitted in a frown. His face looking pale and pained. He was alive.

Sherlock let his head fall forward, forehead pressed against John’s jumper. He took a deep breath, breathing in John’s smell and the fact that he was blissfully alive, alive, alive… They both survived. The chances they were also lucky in getting rid of Moriarty were so very, very small. Almost as small as the ones Moriarty had of surviving, but Sherlock could not let there be any chance. Next time John might not survive. Next time Moriarty may win with both of them. With one last reassuring breath Sherlock moved his head up, slowly standing up and limping to the exit before the police he could already hear would manage to get there. He needed to make sure there wouldn’t be a next time.

* * *

John was in the kitchen when the door downstairs opened. He heard the steps on the stairs and carefully put the cup he was holding on the table, trying to breathe steadily to win with the oncoming shock. He stared at the door leading to the staircase from the kitchen, frozen in place. The steps were slow, cautious, but they were also unmistakably Sherlock’s. John stared, counting the steps in his head, not believing it took so long before the figure appeared in the door. He run through all denials in his head, explaining how he forgot Sherlock’s steps, how it could be someone similar, coincidence, just a silly, heartbreaking coincidence…

He met Sherlock’s gaze and felt the breath wheezing out of him. He was in jeans instead of his usual suit. Warm, thick coat billowed around him just as dramatically as the old one. His hair was shorter, face thinner and his scarf was a dark purple, but there was no mistaking this man for anyone but Sherlock. With gray, sharp eyes staring into John and collecting the data, drawing conclusions like he did the first time they’ve met…

John closed his eyes rapidly, shaking his head and stumbling out of the room. Colliding with the table and almost falling next to the sofa as he scrambled for the bottle of the pills he left there. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his tone, fighting with the bottle and his trembling hands and avoiding the posture in the kitchen that made slow, unsure steps toward the living room. “It was getting better, for God’s sake, it was…”

“What are you…”

Damn it. Damn it to all hell, thought John rapidly. Even this deep voice was the same. But that John got used to hearing around. The hands closing around his were new though. And the palms of them were warm, the tips of the fingertips freezing and John wanted to weep at how real it all felt. 

“No, John, don’t be an idiot. It’s me, I’m here, it’s really me.”

John let his head fall on the shoulder of the man before him, who smelled slightly different than Sherlock used to. Different shampoo probably, he thought, snuggling his nose closer to dark curls. Same Sherlock. His arms crawled around the warm figure kneeling before him, fists tightening in his coat, holding him desperately to stop him from disappearing.   
There was this thought in the back of his head that it could go both ways. Either the hallucination will finally go away, he will wake up to find his hands empty or… His muscles clenched refusing to let go for a moment, his body tense and focused as if concentration could hold the person he created. His eyes burned as the body before him shifted, dragging him to lay together on the floor, partly nested against the sofa. Long fingers run through his hair and John let himself cry into Sherlock’s new coat.

* * *

Dying was convenient, because dying was simple and boring. It was just what people used to do. Moriarty was not interested in dead bodies… He wasn’t interested in living humans either, only in games he played with them. He assumed the dead ones couldn’t play. Silly, really. Sherlock knew that and preferred them as playmates, because not only dead ones could play games, they were the only ones who always played fair. Which is why Sherlock was so very glad, he wasn’t really dead.

The only thing he feared was Moriarty’s boredom. Bored Moriarty would pay attention to anything just to amuse himself and he’d discover the walking dead following him. Moriarty needed a distraction or Sherlock would never get close enough. He was thinking of some sort of a game, of throwing something or someone at the madman, but he didn’t need to do anything of this sort, because Jim apparently learned to find new playmates on his own. 

Sherlock could only laugh at pure genius of it. John. Of course he would go for John. And it was perfect in ways neither of them probably fully understood. Because if John wouldn’t be able to hold Moriarty’s attention who would be? John was… John was bright and unmovable. The warmth of the noble strength cut in a beautiful stone. He was a mix of everything that was so annoying in humanity, but in such unique combination and spiced with just enough of a taste of insanity it made him perfect. Most captivating human in the world, as far as Sherlock could tell. And also one of the strongest, so Moriarty would never end him. It was brilliant and Sherlock could work safely and carefully. He had back up. As always.

* * *

 ~~Anger~~

* * *

The floor underneath him was hard and his pained body complained vividly about choosing to sleep on it. John groaned in pain and the chest he felt pressed before him shifted. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s face barely an inch away from him, laying down on the floor, still in his coat, but with the scarf bundled under his head. John took a long time to just stare, cataloguing all those things he almost forgot. How gray Sherlock’s eyes were, how there were small freckles on his cheekbones, how the tips of his mouth were so sharply dipped into his skin as if he barely held a smile or kept his mouth shut. John sluggishly moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s face, half expecting it to go right through it, making the vision disappear. Instead his palm met warm skin with just barely sensible prickles of stubble on his jaw. He run his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. He could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face and it reminded him of a dream that turned into so many nightmares in his head. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John leaned in, kissing him.   
Slowly at first, barely testing, barely stopping Sherlock from speaking. Soft lips pressed against his, opening under his pressure as he lazily swap his tongue inside, lavishing over Sherlock’s mouth. Exploring it, teasing Sherlock’s own tongue and making out lazily as if he had all the time in the world. As if it was all just a dream. Lazy, warm, seated dream. His hands roamed over Sherlock’s body as Sherlock’s long fingers tightened in his jumper, holding him close. John traveled the path down Sherlock’s chest, his hands sneaking under the coat to touch the warm, smooth shirt underneath it. It was so warm, Sherlock’s heat radiating through the material and John moaned deep in his throat. His kisses moving away from Sherlock’s gasping mouth, kissing his jaw, neck, biting under the pulse point. Sherlock’s hands stilled and his mouth just breathed close to John’s cheek now. Slow, even breaths as if to calm himself. John bit into his neck, sucking on the white, sensitive skin as he rolled on the other man, pushing his thigh between Sherlock’s, pressing against his crotch and Sherlock froze completely. John stilled before experimentally pressing into the other man as he gasped and slid away. He couldn’t move far, pressed tightly as they were, but still deflecting John’s attempts at move this past the heated making out session. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck breathing shallowly.

“Oh god,” John growled thinking of all the dreams he had about pinning down Sherlock or being pinned down by him or… They never went like that.

“Sorry,” whispered Sherlock, sounding slightly guilty and disappointed and John could just shook his head breathing in the smell of him and laughing soundlessly.

“Oh god,” he said the anger in his voice just as honest as the laughter he couldn’t shake. “It is you, isn’t it? You utter, utter bastard… You bloody bastard!”

Sherlock smiled and pet his head, pressing his chin against John’s hair, relaxing. Their position morphing into something speaking more of comfort and warmth and less about sex and hunger. Sherlock held John closely feeling his desperate, hysteric laugh in huffed breaths along his neck. It was fine, it was all fine.

* * *

It was a game, yes. A hunting. But it was also laying low and waiting. Circling the pray, yes, but mostly playing dead. And being dead was boring. There were long weeks when Sherlock couldn’t do anything whole day but get up and wait till he could go back to sleep. And without the chase it took him even longer to get tired enough. And without all small, every day trivia he had nothing to occupy his head. Every experiment could be noticed, could go wrong, was too dangerous. The site had to remain deadly quiet. Every humans he knew had to play along and treat him as a dead, decomposing corpse he should be by now.  
There were days when he sat in empty, so empty rooms, seeing all the traces of previous occupants of this place. Coffee rings on the small table in the kitchen and weirdly enough on the tip of the windowsill, where someone stood, drinking coffee and watching the road. Carefully hidden by the wall, barely sneaking a look through the dirty window. There was the oven darkened by many failed attempts at cooking, at least two of which included some kind of pie. There were smudges on the wall from the spray of an opened can of beer. And lighter square of floor where the rug used to lie. And dark smudges by the door, blood of someone who tried to crawl out of here and quite obviously failed. And the marks of at least three different rats on the leg of the chair by the table. Only two rats starting on the legs of the bed. Different batches, territorial.  
Sherlock could only growl and thump his head against the wall in frustration. The longer he set still the more persistent all the details were becoming. And he needed to find some worth following and follow them to some conclusions, to start the chase to finally move! But he couldn’t. Not yet. He was playing dead. He could suddenly appear, that was true, but he also had to stay unmoved for weeks. He curled in different parts of his current hiding place, tricking himself with change of position and place in the room. As if something changed. He lied and experienced the smell of dampness in the air, the cold sipping through the floor and walls, the muted light sinking through the window… He let his thoughts fly, but it never ended well, they followed all the unimportant patterns, dragging him into madness. He fought hard to focus them. Made himself remember. He had to win. He was better, smarter and more prepared. And he had much more to loose. He thought of John who had to be happy now, sitting in Baker Street, enjoying the silence and clean kitchen, uninterrupted dates. Sometimes he thought it was a blessing for John. Sometimes he imagined John’s disappointed face upon him coming back. Well, John wouldn’t be disappointed to see him alive, but to see him back? Perhaps he wouldn’t be happy it was so soon. Perhaps for him it wasn’t a pained forever like for Sherlock. It would be hard for him to adjust back to living with a madman. Perhaps he’d try and fail and move out. Sherlock had dozens, hundreds of hypothesis how it all could go wrong, how he could not win what he aimed for. John wasn’t a prize exactly, but his life certainly was to be lost or reassured in this game. And Sherlock knew that John forgetting him would hurt like no leaving ever did, but John dying… Dying because Sherlock lost… That would kill them both.

* * *

 ~~Bargaining~~

* * *

“We should move,” said Sherlock finally. “It really is rather uncomfortable. I imagine you must feel it to despite the time that passed, you’re still on painkillers which would suggest…”

John slowly moved off of Sherlock and stumbled toward his chair, taking the bottle of painkillers out of his pocket. Sherlock watched him as a hawk, but he refused to act as if he was doing anything wrong. Perhaps his limbs or ribs hadn’t hurt all that much lately, but no one could guarantee him it wasn’t because he tended to take pills before they got a chance to hurt. He swallowed two pills dry, already overly accustomed to their fill on his tongue.

“You will stop it,” stated Sherlock and John let out a dry chuckle. 

“No offence, Sherlock, but you’re the last person I would take medical advice from.” The only reaction was a steady, deducting gaze and John lost his smile and glared at his friend. “Stop it!”

“They only cloud your judgment, John. You don’t need them anymore, your injuries were clearly healed and you are quite alright considering you just spent over three hours on the floor and can still easily move. You obviously use them as crutch which is no longer needed and-“

“Stop it!” said John sharply, his voice cutting. “You… You don’t understand Sherlock…”

A dry chuckle interrupted him.

“Don’t I, John? Really?”

“It’s different,” stated John shortly, but the smile hadn’t disappear from Sherlock’s face.

He stood up slowly, his muscles stiffened by the position he maintained on the floor. He scratched before taking his coat off an throwing it on the sofa, falling right behind it, sprawled over the furniture, taking as much space as only one can while sitting.

“It really, really isn’t John,” he said patronizing and John avoided his eyes with a grim expression. “Don’t worry, we will get you off them.”

“Oh, we will?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated surly, obviously not taking under consideration the possibility of a failure. “You don’t need them anymore. You only used them as crutch as it was.”

Dry chuckle escaped John’s mouth, the humor in his eyes hiding the trembling feelings of need for Sherlock to put sense into it all. To make it alright once again like he did, when they first met. Like suddenly John didn’t need his cane anymore.

“And now what? My leg has fixed itself?”

Sherlock smiled at him and John could only stare at this small upward curve of his pale lips he missed so much, smirking so smugly like now. 

“Obviously,” replied Sherlock with content in his voice. “You have me now.”

* * *

Jim seemed quite surprised to see him, which stroke Sherlock’s ego enormously, but killed last appreciation he had for his enemy. Really, with so many of his plans going badly? His closest people disappearing? He was really paranoid enough to believe it was his people’s own doing? He really should see this one coming.

And yet he didn’t. He looked at Sherlock with the mix of surprise and delight as Sherlock raised his gun, aiming between his enemy’s eyes. Moriarty laughed, his eyes shining.

“You won’t kill me!” he said, his tone lightened with the bubbling delighted laughter. “You won’t, Sherlock. I’m the only one who can play you on your level. I’m the only one who play _with_ you.”

Sherlock’s smile was cold and calm. Ice of certainty stilling his hand in the perfect aim.

“We have played, Jim,” he smirked. “I won.”

* * *

 ~~Depression~~

* * *

John shifted in his armchair again and when he met Sherlock’s gaze the other man was smiling softly at him, before looking quite pointedly at the place beside him on the sofa. John hid a small smile and quickly changed his seats, almost snuggling into the warmth of his friends. Enjoying the feel and smell of him, constantly reassuring that yes, he was really alive. One of Sherlock’s arms sprawled over the back of the sofa fall to John’s arms, curling around them.

“It is rather cold in here,” he stated quietly.

“That’s not why…” started John making move as if to pull away, but Sherlock held him closer.

“I’m aware, I was just making observation. Feeling the temperature in the room and seeing the signs of your last meals it’s obvious you were cutting on some expenses. We should be able to deal with them again, I should adjust the thermostat…”

He stood up before John managed to clutch him tighter. Quickly moving around the rooms as if nothing changed, he just kept glancing at things that were moved as if he analyzed the new data and added it to the right folders. But he didn’t stop for longer to check anything, just moved to the corridor to adjust the thermostat and came back, quickening his steps as he noticed John’s expression. Noticing probably his face paling, knowing Sherlock he could even hear how John’s heart hammered in his chest as he waited for his friend to reappear and fearing it won’t happen. Sherlock stalked to the sofa and bend over John’s face, kissing him softly on the lips. It was soft and quick and he looked into John’s eyes for confirmation if it was a good thing to do. John gave him a small smile and Sherlock grinned back happily before sitting down and once again gathering John close.

“It’s one of those things we should talk about if I’m correct,” said Sherlock finally, his voice light and John laughed quietly at it.

“It is somewhere on the list, yes. I think there are more pressing thing though. You know, with you being officially dead an all.”

Sherlock mouth were so close, John could feel his warm breath on his hair for as Sherlock stilled, not answering for a moment. His long fingers taped some sort of rhythm in John’s arm and he pressed his cheek lightly toward John’s hair.

“I should probably explain,” he agreed eventually.

“Yes,” laughed John. “That would be really nice. Someone beside me seeing you too, but I will settle for an explanation now.”

The younger man sighed, his arm tightening around John slightly.

“We will meet Mrs. Hudson in the morning, I promise. It’s a bit too late for this now. And I think we should talk first.” John nodded slightly in his arm, but Sherlock still stayed silent, obviously looking for the place to start, obviously unprepared. “I was sure you knew I’m alright. I was half convinced you managed to forget all about me. I’ve met Mycroft after I was done, I called him to help me deal with the consequences… He was quite sure you believe I’m alive.”

“He was sure you were dead too.”

Sherlock looks away. That was true of course and he didn’t expect it even more than John’s state. When Sherlock called Mycroft to tell him about the death of Moriarty he couldn’t quite place his brother’s tone. It came to him as he waited for him and his special ops. Surprise, shock, relief. He wasn’t sure what to expect from his brother and judging by Mycroft’s slightly shaken demeanor he also wasn’t sure if he should slap or hug his brother. He stared at him intently, relieved. Exasperated. Proud. Sherlock grinned at him happily and Mycroft asked him to never do this again. It was apparently upsetting Mummy. Sherlock could only point out it apparently also upset his brother’s diet.

“I know,” he said finally. “It was… unexpected. I didn’t know anything about either of you… It would be obvious if I tried to keep watch on people I know. I only knew Moriarty started playing with you, but it only worked in my favour, I never assumed...”

“In your favour? What do you mean in your favour?” John raised his head angrily looking Sherlock in the eyes and meeting his surprised gaze. Darkening with regret.

“He needed a distraction, you were the best. I could not imagine him getting bored and paying too much attention and discovering me, while he played with you… I mean it was you.”

John stared at him as if fearing to understand what Sherlock was trying to tell him. Astonished at the power of faith Sherlock put in him. Broken because of how easily he disappointed it.

“I was never able to win…” he whispered, but Sherlock shook his head vehemently.

He clenched his hands on John’s arms, turning him so they were face to face and looking into him with his gaze heated and words full of emotions.

“You were never supposed to, John. He wanted to burn you out.”

John let his gaze to fall, small breath escaping him.

“I’m afraid he succeeded-“

“No, no, no, NO! John! Wrong again!” shouted Sherlock and John had to stare at him. At this overwhelming energy barely contaminated in the shape of human. “He was nothing but a worm, a fascinating perhaps, but worm nonetheless! Small and unimportant! Weak! You’re stronger, John, you are so much stronger… He could burn my heart easily, but yours? Yours, John? He couldn’t even properly measure it, John. But he wanted to end you, to burn you… And it would take him years, but he would and I needed to stop him, do you see? I needed to stop him.”

John stared, fascinated at the genius before him. At the genius who faked his own death and won his greatest game ever. Eliminated the only opponent worth of him and claimed he did it all to keep John safe. John thought of all lonely days he spent suffering without Sherlock. Depressed and in pain, dragged into madness by the criminal mastermind and failing to heal properly. He wanted to believe nothing more than the fact that Sherlock needed to leave him here like that. To capture Moriarty’s attention. Perhaps he needed to believe in Sherlock’s death after all. Perhaps, it all made sense in some mad, genius plan that just slightly went of tracks, but worked nonetheless. Like they always did. He stared at Sherlock as he stared at him the very first time they met. Captured, fascinated, unable to ever look away. Not wanting to ever have to look away.

“Tell me,” he asked. “Tell me everything.”

“You sure?” asked Sherlock and John gave him a small, proud smile. Sherlock was almost bursting to tell him.

“Of course. It’s not like you’re going to write it down properly,” he said lightly, thinking of all the conversations and problems they have to get through before he actually will feel good enough to write it down. It will take _ages_ , he thought, but couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He will take it, as long as there will be much more things to write down. “I’m your blogger. You need me to narrate it properly.”

Sherlock smiled, looking at him as if he was the most fascinating and surprising thing in the whole universe. The only one that could actually capture his attention for so long. He leaned down for another short kiss.

“I need you,” he agreed. And started talking about the murder he recently committed with a glee in his wicked smile. It was perfect.

* * *

 ~~Acceptance~~

* * *


End file.
